2022-04-21 - What Do You Mean By Weird?

It's a beautiful spring day, so... yes, let's all head indoors and drink beer. And not at one of those nice, out-in-the-sun places, oh no: try the Pourhouse, where the lights are dim, and the beer is (for the most part) cheap.

Maybe that's because a whole bunch of tourists have shown up, and, for now, the Pourhouse remains quietly local. Maybe it's just because it's mid-week, and some weeks require the application of consolation booze.

Whatever the reasons-- whatever anyone's reasons-- Una Irving sits up at the bar, nursing the remains of a beer and fiddling with a game (some kind of candy crush clone, from the looks of it), quite as if she has no where else to be (because... she probably doesn't).

Ravn on the hand is just a regular. The Dane, in his black blazer and turtleneck, does stand out a bit among the flannel shirts and denim jackets crowd he tends to end up spending time with but no one seems to make anything of it. He may be an eccentric ponce but at least where the lobster fighting ring folks are concerned, he's their eccentric ponce. Today, though, he scampers on to a tall chair by the bar and makes eyes at the serving girl. When he orders a whiskey on ice, she immediately reaches for a bottle under the counter rather than the usual; the Pourhouse's management knows the too-posh drinking habits of that one customer and hey, if he's willing to pay for it, they'll supply it.

"Drinking alone isn't healthy," he tells the redhead with the phone game. "Or so I'm told. I mean, I do it all the time and I turned out perfectly all right. Right?"

Finch is usually more of a coffee shop or library sort of gal, but as was mentioned, it's tourist season. She's looking for a quiet place to study for her 9-1-1 Dispatcher test, that isn't full of looky-loos or college kids cramming for finals. She's also looking for somewhere her dad isn't likely to just show up at it in the middle of the day, because she hasn't exactly TOLD him about her intended career change yet. She shoulders her way into the Pourhouse with a backpack over her shoulder, in jeans and a light canvas military jacket, over a bright orange tee shirt that reads "Adios Bitchachos" complete with sombrero and mustache.

Ah look, familiar faces! She heads towards Ravn and Una with a faint smile. "Day drinking is a Gray Harbor tradition."

"Solo day drinking is pretty much a culmination of all Gray Harbor stands for," confirms Una, whose phone gets set down so that she can glance first at Ravn, and then at Finch in turn; both get an easy smile. "Though given you're here, 'solo' is out of the picture for now. I mean, it's not like I have any neuroses, or personal issues, or anything at all that alcohol couldn't fix, right?" RIGHT?

Una's bare shoulders already show signs of having seen the sun on personal terms, but then, that's probably not surprising: Oak has had summer for weeks already.

"Right." Ravn can't resist a laugh at that; as always, soft and quiet. "No issues. Absolutely not. Nice shirt, Finch -- what is it with your family and shirts? I feel like if I ever decide to change my style, I'm raiding your combined wardrobes."

He curls long fingers around the whiskey glass with one hand, and then dips into a pocket with the other, to retrieve that plastic cigarette he's often toying with; idle hands are busy hands, and these hands in particular have a habit of picking up things that don't belong to them -- better keep them busy. "Are we day drinking about something particular, then, or are we just celebrating that the tourist season is officially ten days away?"

Finch chuckles. "At least you don't have two blood relatives currently in padded cells in an institution," she quips to Una. When the tender approaches she orders a Sprite with grenadine syrup. "I'm the designated walker," she snorts at their look when she doesn't order booze.

She grins at Ravn and perches beside him on a stool. "It's my dad's thing. I just decided to adopt it as a bonding measure being as I spent most of my life not even knowing I was half Mexican. As for day drinking, I'm just here to study for an exam."

Una's expression suggests extreme, if temporary, awkwardness: she doesn't quite know what to look when Finch quips about that. She believes it, but...

It takes her a moment (and a sip from her drink) to recover enough to say, "We're just day drinking. At least I am. Because I am young, and mostly healthy, and have no responsibilities in the world to stop me. What are you studying for, Finch?"

"...bucks says they don't have a menu with meat on it," is the fragment of conversation that heralds more arrivals. A pair; Nicasia is first through the door ahead of the much larger Myles; first in to remove a pair of sunglasses and to stick them in a jacket pocket because they're wholly unnecessary here. Without them as cover there's nothing to hide the way she looks around, a slow right-to-left sweep that might be mistaken as judgmental, or like she's casing the joint for exits or loose valuables that haven't been properly secured. The jacket is leather, paired with jeans and boots with low heels, and a button-down shirt enough sizes too big that it could double as a real short dress, tailored to fit her lean frame.

It doesn't take long for her curiosity to be satisfied though, or maybe for her to be satisfied she's going to win whatever bet they were making. Or she can't then get back through Myles, so she heads for the bar and offers a languid two-fingered wave. "Happy hour starts early here, huh?"

"Happy hour is whenever there's an hour and somebody feels happy," declares the tall copper blond on a barstool; he's cradling a glass of whiskey in gloved fingers so maybe he's just one of those people who can find an excuse, anytime, for a drink. He's got a faint accent -- not quite British but close -- and a lopsided smile as he nods at the new arrivals. Neither face is familiar; he doesn't let that stop him from tossing a small, lopsided smile at them.

Finch grins at Una. "Well, don't go spreading this around, because de la Vega doesn't know yet," she murmurs. Yes, she refers to her father by his last name. "But I'm taking the 9-1-1 Dispatcher exam in a few weeks. I wanted to be able to help people somehow, and help the cops 'in the know' be alerted to what they may be in store for if a call seems to be influenced by Over There."

Her eyes sweep over the new arrivals as they enter, curious, and Nicasia looks somewhat familiar to the local girl. Finch was more than a few years behind her in school, but she no doubt saw her around town growing up. And most people who grew up here know about the Celaeno family and their "curse".

Stepping in behind Nicasia, the much larger form of Myles fills the doorway. His brows are narrowed as well, sweeping the place much like she did. Though there's less question as to whether it can be mistaken as judgmental. It's judgmental. "I'll take it." The bet. Myles is looking around at the place with a deep frown now, "Was this place even around when we were here?" The large man is mumbling to his companion. The man is likely intimidating looking, a baggy hoodie is worn, his hands in his pockets. A baggy pair of jeans and a thick pair of work boots.

Nicasia is friendly to the local day drinkers. Myles a modicum less so. He gives an up-nod to Ravn as he follows her in towards the bar at a significantly slower more lumbering pace.

"Oh," says Una, who sounds genuinely pleased and delighted (they really are two separate things, hush), straightens as Finch explains. "That's awesome. I was going to say, don't worry, I never see him anyway, but-- was it only Monday? Pizza." Not glancing at Ravn as she says that, in a way that may come across as very deliberate, that slight stiffening. "But I probably now won't see him again for months, so you're safe. Not that I'd say anything anyway. It makes a lot of sense, to have people embedded in these things."

The redhead turns, alerted to the new arrivals by Ravn's comments. "It's a dive bar; day drinking's always allowed," she suggests, smiling warmly enough.

"I think so," Nicasia murmurs, her long-considered answer to the age of the establishment. But yes. One of them has to be friendly, like some kind of well-orchestrated social experiment, a routine they've not practiced so much as exercised until it's muscle memory. She does spend another moment studying each of the patrons in turn, an unabashed and unhurried up-and-down skim that doesn't immediately place any of them, or if any familiarity is found doesn't strike any special chord of sociability. That comes in her sliding onto a seat a few empties down, one foot parking on a rung.

"Someone celebrating? Or just happy?" The first question is for Ravn, but maybe it's answered by the rest of the conversation. How much of it she's heard is moot. The curiosity seems genuine enough to come with a smile at Una. "Is that the it's-5-pm-somewhere clause, or the place opens at 11 because somebody's gonna need a drink by noon?"

"It's coming up on eight in the evening where my students live, that's got to be good enough," Ravn agrees in an amicable tone. "But really, the somebody's going to need a drink any moment clause works too. We are in Gray Harbor, after all."

He probably means that the town does have a kind of tired and depressing look to it. Not that he looks like a lumber mill or factory worker himself, turtleneck and blazer. Possibly some hipster art designer from Portland who took the wrong bus. "Don't think we've met. Ravn Abildgaard, resident geek."

"My thoughts exactly," Finch confirms for Una with a grin. She accepts her bubbly non-boozy drink from the tender and takes a sip, with a straw because she's never quite trusted the cleanliness of the day shift at the Pourhouse. "Other than fighting angry sentient trees, my current job hasn't been much for putting me on the front lines of this fight," she murmurs.

She turns towards Nicasia and Myles and squints. "You two look familiar. Did you used to live here?" she asks. I mean, it'd be hard to not recognize someone like Myles, especially when she is a solid foot shorter than the man.

Myles does much the same as Nicasia, with a careful study of the patrons. Of the environs. He doesn't look as long as she does. It hits a little different when someone like Nicasia studies you than when someone who looks like Myles does. There's a sidelong glance over to Ravn, introducing himself as the resident geek. He glances away for a few moments before looking back. "Myles Webber." His voice almost sounds like a growl when he finally speaks, slowly nodding his head politely to the other man. His eyes flick over to Finch at her question.

Letting out a breath he nods. "Yeah." He admits. "Back in the day." He slowly shrugs his broad shoulders. "'m Leonard Webber's son, if you knew him. Safe Harbor Bail Bonds." He allows Nicasia to introduce herself, while he busies himself with finding the menu.

"Oh, I've also been fighting sentient, angry trees-- but that was definitely a Dream, not day-job material," says Una, cheerfully, in answer to Finch. "I get you, though. It makes sense. I'm mostly just trying to... well, open house policy. Cookies for anyone who needs to decompress. I don't feel like I have a lot more to offer, for now, but it's still something."

She lifts her mostly-empty beer glass towards Nicasia, chiming in after Ravn to confirm, "The latter, I think. It's good for the economy, and therefore it's good by me. Una. Una Irving. Nice to meet you both."

"Nicasia Aldrich," provides her own introduction along with a slowish nod at Finch, who maybe stands out to her because she hasn't given a name yet and so wins that extra little sliver of sharpened-up attention, the kind that has finally honed in on the one familiar face in the whole lot. "Nice to meet you all. Yeah, we fled the state in '07. Took the scenic route coming back. You're..." It's like she can almost remember, but she's not going to get that far.

Mostly because she's then distracted by whatever conversation they wandered into. "Sentient. Angry. Trees." Maybe if just one of them had said that she'd had let it go but they don't and now she looks at each of them again, individually, brows lifted ever so slightly in the most delicate of dubiousness. Una, then Finch, then Ravn again. "And here I remember town being real slow 'n sleepy."

"Can't say I end up fighting trees a lot," Ravn muses. "When I do it's usually because I decided to go for a walk after drinking too much. This town, though, can't say I'm surprised."

He hitches a shoulder and sips his whiskey. "Only been around about a year and a half myself. Town grows on you, though. It's got a certain something. Thought I was just going through on my way to Portland and somehow, I ended up sharing a house on Oak Avenue, so that's my globe trotting coming to an end. Bail Bonds sounds like -- you deal with ex-cons?"

Finch nods at Myles. "Yeah, I think my family knew him. Finch Celaeno, Dove's grandaughter. Though it's officially Finch de la Vega now since I took my father's last name." Same last name as the current police chief.

She smiles to Una. "That actually helps more than you may realize. Having someplace to go to that is safe to talk about...things." She looks shifty-eyed at that. Nicasia's comment has her snorting into her straw. "That happens when you leave for a while. You remember things...differently." She can see the shine of both of them. They'll remember in due time just what this town is really like.

She blinks over at Nicasia. "Aldrich? Was your dad a police officer?" she asks. Because she remembers one being there on 'the day' when her mother tried to kill her.

There's a light wince from Myles when Nicasia repeats 'sentient angry trees'. He slowly gives her a look. When people say things like 'sentient angry trees' you just ignore that it was said and act like it was a normal thing to say. Like someone who wants to talk about their sovereign citizen rights or how much money they made off a pyramid whatever. You just smile and nod. But not Nicasia. Myles is looking slightly pained over to her.

He looks over to Ravn, a faint hint of amusement on his lips at the question. He gives a slow nod. "Yeah. Most of the time that's the gig." His eyes shoot over to Finch, a small spark of recognition in his eyes before he looks away. It only lasted for a second. At the more acute mention of Nicasia's father, Myles is driven to get a drink. "Jack Daniels Tennessee Honey if you got it." He's calling out over the bar before casting a look to Finch. Then to Nicasia. While he doesn't outright answer, he helps confirm. "Gray Harbor's finest."

It's hard to tell with little to no emotion on his face if he's being sarcastic or not.

"Sentient angry trees," agrees Una, encouragingly. Don't fight it, her expression says. Just let it happen. You're back in Gray Harbor, now. The left corner of her mouth pulls up, just slightly: yes, fine, she knows how it sounds. She doesn't much seem to mind. Maybe it's the (dark, heavy) beer she's already drunk most of.

"Mm," she adds for Finch, though there's too much else going on-- too much that she's trying to keep track of-- for her to further elucidate her feelings, or what she, specifically, is trying to do to support the shiny, shiny denizens of GH.

Nicasia's clarification about that line of work is almost automatic. "Some of them are a little more why than ex, but yeah." Myles more or less explains, more confirms than adds. But he's ordering and she holds up her hand again, the same two fingers she waved with now indicating that maybe the Jack is a two'fer, like maybe this is going to be that kind of conversation. Or that kind of day. Something about the trees, something about this conversation clearly having hooked whatever bit there is at the back of her mind that can't just have a Disney moment and let it go.

"Hank Aldrich," she acknowledges Finch. "Retired, now. And now's the time for you to let me know if he's a regular here." She smiles, and it's a lazy sort of expression; but the invitation given is maybe also a request for a heads-up so she - so they - can be elsewhere. Once the itch has been scratched. She eyes each of the three again for a briefer moment, then shakes her head. Really, what do you say to that?

Ravn throws Una a glance that clearly reads, look at the locals. Then he sips his whiskey and offers, "Well, if any of those blokes end up my way, we might end up talking in a professional capacity. I kind of ended up running most of the administration at the local community centre. We've got a few outreach programs for people who've been in some kind of trouble."

"I don't think I've seen your father in here before," Finch assures Nicasia. "My dad is Police Chief de la Vega. I think your pops retired before Javier moved here though," she offers. Her phone buzzes and she glances down at it with a frown. "So much for study time. Have to pick up some things for Gran and head home." She gets up and pays for her soda. "Welcome home, I guess," she offers to Nicasia and Myles, because who can honestly welcome someone back to the crazy of this town? "We can always use extra hands at the shelter too. Ravn can tell you all about it."

With that the short brunette heads out.

The two glasses arrives on the bar and Myles slides one over to Nicasia. He looks over to Ravn and gives a slow nod. "You do like night classes?" He asks, furrowing his brows. "That's kind of you. Helping out people like that." He takes a slow sip of his glass. "If you got a card or some shit we can hand them out. If you want." Then eyes are on Finch, brows furrowing once more as he watches her head out before looking back to Nicasia. He takes a longer pull of his glass. "Shelter." He states flat in her wake. "Dog shelter?"

Una turns a glance back on Ravn that says 'What?!' but she doesn't push it; there's no further discussion of sentient trees. She lifts a hand after the departing Finch, then picks her phone up off the bar, sliding it into her pocket: Candy Crush will have to wait.

"This town does seem to have a habit of calling people back," she muses, idly, not having much else to contribute to the rest of the conversation. "And more crime than it needs or deserves. I guess that explains the bail bonds, huh?"

Nicasia takes the glass slid her way, fingers curling around it, though she doesn't immediately lift it. "See you," she assures Finch, as if the inevitability of it is inescapable. She does look after her for a couple of moments, studious, assessing, but there are likely memories in there somewhere being dredged out and associated with the younger woman that will have to be sorted later. As will this matter of the shelter, though when Myles tries to get clarification she smiles, a little.

Rather than drink she gets more comfortable, folding her arm along the edge of the bar to lean against, like she might could be here for a while while she edges around the conversation, or what there is of it. It's Una's statement about crime that wins the little shake of her head. "There's crime everywhere. Maybe more, maybe less. Some people are just better about not getting caught, and some of them just keep getting caught over and over again. I did hear something about a fresh run of criminal interest though. Sounded like somebody maybe thought you were a fresh new market, but maybe that isn't the case."

"I think she meant her own shelter, but I'm not sure." Ravn glances after Finch as she flits out into Spruce Street beyond. "But on the off chance she meant the community centre, it's literally right over there -- on the other side of the street, in what used to be the old butchers' shop."

Then he nods at Nicasia. "There's been a bit of that, yeah. Last summer, some mob boss from elsewhere tried to move in and take over. It didn't end very well -- mass shooting at a garden expo, a shoot-out at the police station, and what have you. It's been sort of quiet since, though there's talk on corners about some gang from Spokane trying to make moves. It's the old industrial harbour -- easy access for moving goods into Seattle, and no one really looks twice at this place. Or well, at least that's my guess. I'm not exactly a criminal profiler -- I did make a living as a thief back home for a while, though."

Myles takes another slow sip of his whiskey, glancing sidelong at Ravn once more before looking back to Nicasia. What she's talking about, Myles seems to be in the dark about. He didn't research as much as they moved back. There's a light frown before he pats the bar. "I'm gonna step outside for a second. Be back in a minute." Another sip of his glass before he's lumbering for the door.

Una listens, brown eyes flicking from Nicasia to Ravn to Myles-- though they specifically follow the taller man as he heads for the door.

When she turns back again, it's to rest one pale forearm upon the bar (it's sticky, and she probably regrets it ever so slightly, but too late) and say, "It feels more exposed, here. Between-- well, yeah, the mob boss stuff, though granted I was here for that. I know organised crime exists in the big city, but I never saw any of it, there. Here, there's that quiet edge of desperation in some people. It's sad. But," she allows, finally, "I may just be seeing more, here. Hearing more."

"Mmmmn." It's about as committal as Nicasia is going to get about this mysterious shelter, like it merits some interest, but not as much as the rest. Not yet. Priorities.

When Myles taps out she lifts her chin in his direction, but she doesn't follow. She does finally drink, lifting her glass for a quick swallow, more medicinal than pleasurable. It gives her time to listen to what those who remain have to say, sketching in some details about the state of the city. When Ravn admits to having been a thief she smiles a little, a trifle amused at his expense, but she doesn't pry. Only nods. "Most harbors have some kind of problem like that. A whole lot of waterfront, not enough eyes to watch everything." But it's Una's take on it that is more interesting, her choice of words subtly more compelling.

There's a beat where she starts to say something, lips parting, but reconsiders in the next heartbeat. It arrests the statement and inserts a pause instead, a shard of silence while she redirects. "The place always did seem a little sad," she says finally. "I can't say it's good to be back, but it is what it is, you know? You'd think it would be good for business."

"There's a lot of effort being made to turn Gray Harbor into a kind of tourist destination. Not as crazy as it sounds -- we're a good pit stop between Puget Sound and Olympia. The Grand Olympic Casino on its own island in the Bay and all -- it makes sense. But it's probably also what's attracting outside attention." Ravn nods and sips his whiskey. "Whatever local blokes shipped a bit of drugs into Seattle from here in the past, no one noticed. Now there are opportunities. I hear some of it from people who's in trouble. I am also going to stay the hell out of it, because one misstep and that's the end of my visa."

"It's an interesting juxtaposition," puts in Una, her words coming almost immediately after Ravn's. "The cashed-up tourists, the casino-goers, the organised crime, and-- the fishing boats, the lumberyard workers," she gestures towards the bar with a tip of her chin, though at this time of the day there's not so many of them around, "and the ones who haven't found work at all. Did something specific bring you back?"

Nicasia listens. She's asked her questions and is very interested in the answers, though couches it a little behind the veneer of lowering her chin like she's looking at her glass, which only just softens the brightness of her eyes, the look through her lashes at Ravn, then Una, as each one contributes to the mental sketch. There is another quick smile at Ravn. "You the sort that trouble doesn't go out of its way to find, then?" Like she disbelieves. Almost. Allllmost.

Una, however, comes back with this question and she takes a breath. And then a drink, lifting the little tumbler for another quick swallow. "Webber." Like it's the whole answer, but information doesn't come without information, so, "The old man left everything to Myles. He needed a..." There's another measured stroke of composed silence. "...partner. We worked together in Vegas for a while, on and off, and it's not a business that changes much across state lines. Hell, it often crosses them anyway. Now it's just a matter of settling in. Nothing's quite like it was, though."

"Think it's more that I am pretty decent at shutting my eyes and my ears and pretending I don't recognise trouble when it comes walking down the street towards me," Ravn muses and sips his whiskey. "It's a choice, yes? There are opportunities in Gray Harbor. I see some of them. I decide to not see them. And sometimes -- often -- I end up helping sort things out for the people who could not afford to let trouble keep on walking."

Una chooses-- and it's a visible choice, given the way she hesitates and considers-- not to comment on Ravn's explanation. The corners of her mouth twist up, but the not-quite-smile is neither amused nor especially illustrative.

Instead, she turns her attention back on Nicasia, nodding just once. "Welcome back, then," she says. "I imagine nothing ever is the same. Even towns like this shift and change. I imagine the bones haven't changed, though. New coat of paint, here and there. New carpets. But it's still the same place."

"Hear no evil, see no evil?" Is it a choice? The way Nicasia says this suggests she may lean more toward disbelief, but she doesn't press it, only looks between the pair of them again, has another sip. "Seems like you're a real helpful kind of guy," she observes, though some of it by rote. Maybe it's Una's reaction to his words, though she looks that way next, a touch of expectancy creeping in again. "What about you? We've got the self-professed geek and the wanna-be dispatcher," which she caught from Finch, but still a long laundry list of unanswered - albeit unasked - questions.

"Some things are still the same," she admits. "Still exactly the same, like they were the day we left, just older and greyer. Might could use a new coat of paint and some carpet. And then some other things are just not at all like they were. Maybe my memory is just bad. It's alright, I didn't come back to dig up the past. Some things oughta just be left buried."

"Veritable saint, me." Ravn toys with his plastic cigarette; those long, gloved fingers cannot stay still for long. Whoever came up with the idea of a law prohibiting smoking at bars that serve food needs to get shot. Whoever came up with the idea of serving toasts and other bar food here needs to get -- eh, a stern talking to.

"Small towns are like this anywhere," he muses. "I come from one like it back home. Larger town but same feel. Big deal -- last century. Now? Just sort of sitting there, trying to decide whether it's going to try to get into the 21st century or just give up and fade into obscurity. Gray Harbor feels a lot like that, too. Of course Gray Harbor has a bit more going on, this close to a city like Seattle and whatnot. Seattle is -- well, it's got more people than my country."

"I'm the resident home baker and general soft-touch," is Una's answer, and only the faintest hint of pink about her cheeks suggests she's ashamed by the lack of there being more to offer.

"Seattle's where I'm from. Gray Harbor feels ridiculously small, to me. Everyone seems to know everyone, even though I know that's not actually the case." Her expression has turned thoughtful again, and this time she gives Nicasia's face a more open study; watchful, expressively so.

And then, abruptly, she looks away again. "And I need to pee." She's off!

Nicasia isn't particularly worried about that being the sum of Una's job description, if even she believes it. She does nod though, a slow tilt of her head that measures out some more contemplating, hints at some more mental notes being taken back there, someplace. Then the redhead is off and she looks briefly bemused.

And also finishes what's in her glass, tossing it back in one last quick swallow, which has her glancing at the door. Not like she's looking to leave, more like she's checking for her partner. "Seattle's nice. Vegas is a whole different ball park. Might as well be a whole different country. It's so desperate to stay relevant, to not fade away. Ever building onward and upward on the bones of last week's dreams." Probably she could wax on about the nature of cities, but doesn't. Instead, she looks at Ravn again, appraising. "You like it here?"

"I do," the copper blond confirms. "But that's maybe not so much the town as it's the people I've come to know in it. It's not the place I'd have expected to end up feeling like I could stick around for a while, but here I am. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, right? Except of course you kind of can't help it sometimes when the damned horse opens up wide and blocks your way."

He sips his whiskey; the ice is almost melted. "I didn't make it down to Vegas. Came into Kennedy Airport and headed pretty much straight west. I was planning to hitch rides down the west coast, with a few trips inland, until hitting Tierra del Fuego, pretty much. Then maybe New Zealand or Tasmania, who knows? Life never works out like you plan, though."

"Wow. You got derailed right quick, huh?" Nicasia smiles, but can't entirely keep back a subtle bitterness that creeps in to limn her expression. "Making plans seems like a sure-fire way to make sure they don't actually happen, or don't happen the way you intended. Or wanted. I'm glad it's working out for you, though."

It's inevitable that the bartender come 'round to see if she wants more and after three or four seconds she switches up for club soda and lime, surrendering one glass for another without much remorse. "I'm still curious about the trees," she says finally. "Unless that's some kind of euphemism for..." What she can't even tell; there's a lazy curl of her fingers at the air, like that nothingness holds the many possibilities that angry sentient flora could possibly stand in for. "But then I gather we're way on the outside, barely looking in, and totally derailed whatever conversation you all were having in the first place. Unapologetically."

"I'm actually not entirely sure," Ravn confesses. "I think I missed a memo somewhere, too. I know Una Irving well enough, though, to suspect she means it very literally. She's not the euphemisms kind of person, you know? No jokes about hardwood there."

He hitches a shoulder lightly. "Sometimes, weird things happen. Gray Harbor's good at weird. I'm told that if you go away from here for a while, you start to forget -- I think that's what Finch was hinting at. I've only gone off for a week or so myself, and I didn't manage to start to forget. I actually went because I wanted to see if I could -- and sure enough, I was barely out of US air space before I was itching to go back. We call it the Hotel California effect -- you know the song, you can check out, but you can never leave."

Nicasia mmmns again, an entire thought composed inside of a single sound. Another glance is shot in the direction Una disappeared in, but she isn't here to explain it any further, so the matter is let go.

That one, anyway. The next one has her biting her lower lip, catching it briefly between her teeth. "Can't say I was in a hurry to come back, and I've been gone... what, fifteen years?" It scarcely matters because that isn't what she's interested in. "What do you mean by weird?"

Ravn studies his own gloved hands; black kidskin gloves indoors, in April, because why not. "By resident geek I also kind of mean local loon." He offers a small, lopsided smile. "Or at least I'm going to sound that way, aren't I? This town attracts certain kinds of people. It's not all that eager to let them go. It's rare to hear of people who moved away, and stayed away -- yourself, case in point. We tend to just find reasons we have to stay. For me, everyone I care about is here."

He studies his glass. "Ever had experiences you couldn't entirely explain to others? Without them thinking you're some kind of crazy? That's the kind of people who tend to end up here. A community within the community, so to speak."

The door crashes closed. Myles is putting away a vape pen. He had been in the place for a few seconds before he apparently decided to close the door with force. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe it was the wind.

He strolls back to the bar perhaps having caught a snippet of the conversation. He picks up the glass he left and takes a sip. “Yeah we’ve heard all this before. Lizard men in LA. All that shit. We’ve broken in to supposed hideouts.” He doesn’t reveal what they found but the flat look Ravn is getting suggests the answer.

His eyes finally flick back down to Nicasia.

"Maybe I just had more of a reason to go," Nicasia answers. "Maybe I just don't like being told I have to do a thing. By anyone. Or anything." Especially something as abstract as geography, the notion of which doesn't seem to sit right. But she also doesn't dismiss it outright.

Of her experiences she says nothing. Maybe doesn't need to, as her gaze follows his to his hands, to his gloves. Maybe she doesn't need to because then Myles is back, a ruckus to fill what was otherwise going to be a silence, a loud close of the door and a stomp of boots and the words that she maybe doesn't necessarily share, though she does smile, ever so very slightly. "I don't know," she offers finally. "Never experienced anything I couldn't explain to myself. Not lizard people though. Mighta enjoyed that."

Ravn quirks an eyebrow. "If you tell me you found lizard men I'm going to look surprised. My bet would have been meth labs." He shakes his head. "Drugs are something I've never been involved with barring trading a bit of pot as a teenager. And, well, that stuff's legal here so not much point."

He cracks a small smile. "I can relate to the not letting anyone tell you what to do, though. A lot of us can -- you'll be surprised how many people come here to hide from someone or something who told they had that right. Or maybe you won't be, given what you said you do for a living. I suppose finding people who are trying to hide isn't off the time table."

Myles takes a slow drink. The glass is set back on the counter firmly enough to make a little clink. “No lizard men. Just a bunch of old abandoned places and the graffiti left behind.”

There’s a pause of silence before Myles is shifting to look at Ravn fully.

“What about you? Saying you were an actual... thief.” There’s amusement on his lips as if this title is a novelty to him. “And you say it to strangers in daylight. Anyone looking for you, Ravn?”

"Did find a dead guy in a warehouse in the desert once. He looked like he was a lizard man." There's not so much as a scrap of sympathy for the deceased there, Nicasia not cold but detached, her hindsight on that memory without any real emotion at all. Not like this mention of abandoned places, of graffiti, such that she glances toward the door again like she's only just now realizing this town might be full of that, too.

Then she laughs. "As it happens I am pretty damned good at finding people who are hiding. Enough to make a living out of it. Enough, even, that sometimes the people who are lost aren't the ones who don't want them to be found." Myles earns himself a little kick though, the toe of her boot finding his shin. The perils of being tall. It isn't hard, but it's a pointed little nudge. "I'm sure he's not worth money."

"If somebody was looking for me, I'd be a right bloody idiot to say something like that in broad daylight." Ravn offers a small, lopsided smile. "I was a stupid kid making stupid mistakes because it'd piss my parents off. And getting bailed out of trouble by daddy's lawyers to boot, so, no, no criminal record. And no intention of getting one."

He trails a fingertip along the rim of his glass. "It's not a secret, though. Some of the people I work with -- they find it easier to relate to someone who's done the sleep in bus stops circuit too, even if only for a while. They don't care much for some bloke playing social worker, but if you speak their language, they're a little less likely to think you're just there to fuck them over like everyone else."

A small chuckle at that last observation. "Sorry, no. I do have an interpol file because of somebody else's managing to get themselves killed, but I've not exactly tried to hide where I'm at, and no one's come knocking so far."

Myles has been kicked by Nicasia many times. He's learned to expect it. There's a quiet grunt in response to the toes finding his shin, though he doesn't take his gaze away from Ravn. Not immediately. "Most people are." He intones quietly. "Bloody idiots." He affirms for the man maybe trying out his accent just barely for the two words. "So much shit people could get away with, if they just learned to shut their mouths. But no one does. Everyone talks. Everybody has to tell somebody. You'd be surprised how often it comes out. We find a lot of people that way." Bailed out of trouble by daddy's lawyers. He lifts his glass up. "Lucky you." He states flatly before looking over to Nicasia.

There's a slow glance over to the man at the mention of someone getting themselves killed but he mostly looks down to his glass. "I forgot about that guy." Myles grunts over to Nicasia. The guy in the warehouse. He shrugs his broad shoulders.

"There's always somebody looking for you," Nicasia observes. She picks up her glass again - this one full of bubbly water and lime and definitely not the whiskey she had when Myles left her unattended before - and tosses some of this back too. "Is it any more or less stupid to suggest you were a thief than to suggest somebody may be wondering just where exactly you are? Not that you seem especially hard to find. I'd be awful surprised if there were many men fitting your general description in this particular part of the world, unless they lost track of you in New York and were expecting you in Argentina."

It's not really her business though and seems to be derailing away from the earlier subject. That or she doesn't want to touch Daddy's Lawyers with someone else's 10 foot pole, which might be more accurate since she studiously avoids looking at her partner for that bit of the conversation.

No. No she's like a dog with a bone, that itch still unscratched, which is what brings her back around, eventually, to, "All of you all in this little community, then? You, Una? Finch, I suppose, by default." She does remember, but maybe remembers enough to lump that into 'weird.'

"Two ways to deal with secrets," Ravn agrees, nodding at Myles. "Keep your mouth shut or put all the skeletons out on the lawn in plain sight. I tend to opt for the latter. But speaking as someone with a history -- yeah, people talk. A lot. Best way to find out what house to visit or what grift to pull, buy a man a beer, fake an interested smile, and just listen. Not exactly news to you either, is it? "

He lets that drop and nods at Nicasia. "Finch's a local. Una Irving and I are both imports. Same reasons -- this place tends to draw in people of a certain calibre. You'll be surprised at how many people from abroad are here -- town this size, so many people from bloody all over. Some of them quiet about where they're from, others not so much. Me, well, anyone home wants me, they know what lawyer in Seattle to call."

Except that after a while, the outside world tends to let you slip from mind because that's what Gray Harbor does, and that call is likely never going to come. What a pity. "I suppose I could ask if there's someone in particular you folks are hoping to find but -- option one. You'd be pretty piss poor investigators if you spilled it all to some random bloke at the local dive."

Myles finishes his drink. Looking up to the bartender as if he may request another. But. It is daytime. There's a slow sidelong look over to Nicasia. He looks back to the bartender. Down to his glass, over to Ravn. He reaches down to his back pocket and goes to take some cash out, slapping it to the bar. He shoves the money across the bar, and waves a dismissive hand. Keep the change.

He glances over to Ravn. "It's not a very complicated business. We aren't dealin' with the Oceans Eleven crew here. Most of the time they're at the girlfriends house. The girlfriends moms house. The girlfriends friends house. Mom's house." A lot of girlfriends in there. "Just gotta find out which one they're at and where that is. She's pretty good at that part." A motion of his chin over to the woman.

Isn't that almost exactly what Nicasia did? Wndered in, put on an interested smile, and listened? There comes that quirk of a smile at Ravn then, however, and a tiny tilt of her head. "You can certainly ask, but right now I can 'fess right up and assure you that there isn't. We've only been in town a few days. Haven't even gone to the shop and unlocked the doors yet, haven't seen what surprises the old man left." There's maybe a touch of bitterness in that, but she washes it back with the rest of her club soda.

She does catch that sidelong look and there might be a subtle pointed something in it, a tiny narrowing of her eyes, but then he's fishing out cash and it seems to be some sort of a silent signal. "Would give you a card, but it turns out we don't have any of those, either. Gotta get all my numbers changed over. I rather gather you're something of a fixture, though." It's like the 'see you' she had for Finch, but subtly different.

"Well, I'm a fixture on the other side of the street." Ravn offers a small smile and nods across Spruce -- where indeed, the community centre occupies an old store front. "Apart from that -- I'm a bloke who lives on his boat on the marina and generally talks too much to too many people. And once I'm out of here in a minute, some jackass is going to tell you I run a secret fight club. Which is true, but they'll leave out the part where it's a group of blokes breeding lobsters, making them pose for the camera, and then eating the damned things."

He hops off his tall chair and drops a couple of bills on the counter for the bartender, tip included. "If you need me for some reason or other, I'm usually either over there -- " a nod across the street " -- or on the marina. I'd hand you a card but, I don't have one, either."